


Nobody Looks, Nobody Sees (and that’s just how we like it)

by Coffee_Scribbles



Category: CrankGameplays - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Roommates, Backflip Boy Ethan Nestor, Bad Boy Mark Fischbach, Bad Nicknames, Being Chased, Boarding School, Bullies, Dark Academia, Dark Academia Insipred, Emotional Trauma, Gymnastics, Hidden Emotions, M/M, Mentions of Arson, Mischief, New Kid Ethan Nestor, Parkour, Popular Mark Fischbach, Rule Breaking, Secret Organizations, Secrets, Smuggling, Soft Boy Ethan Nestor, Subverted Stereotypes, Underage Smoking, mentions of trauma, secret keeping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28583958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffee_Scribbles/pseuds/Coffee_Scribbles
Summary: Ethan’s getting good at that, he thinks. Creating introductions for a crowd's easy consumption. Shortening himself down to a few clipped sentences; the summarizing blurb on the back of book nobody really wants to read.He’s good at defining himself by what he used to be. He used to live in Portland Maine, a town of less than fourteen thousand people. He used to be a gymnast, nearing nationals.He used to be a normal kid, he used to be a bad liar.He used to be bad at keeping secrets.He used to not be good at starting fires.But that was a long time ago.
Relationships: Mark Fischbach/Ethan Nestor
Comments: 25
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

The slow beat of the windshield wipers feels like a metronome, a timer ticking down between seconds. It’s the only sound, beyond the patter of rain outside.  
Plump drops smearing across the windshield, creating watercolors out of streetlights and tall grey buildings.  
Ethan sits in the back, leaning as far into the worn too-stiff seats as he dares, willing the old leather not to make a noise. His breath feels shallow in his chest, like he’s just barely treading water.  
The air in the car is stuffy and bitter-sweet, like leather cleaner and the piny, tacky scent of the air freshener dangling from the mirror.

The man in the front is silent, wrinkled hands loose on the wheel, head of balding grey hair facing front. Ethan doesn’t know his name. It’s up for debate if that’s because Ethan had always been a forgetful kid, or if the man had never bothered to actually introduce himself.

  
Either way, the silence —lacking even the bop of shitty pop-radio— tells him that the man obviously doesn’t care about Ethan; he was just a random kid after all. And that makes Ethan feel pretty okay with returning the favor.  
He’s just some unfortunate soul, withering his life away behind a wheel, tasked with ferrying students between the train station and the Ember Academy, a boarding school.

Ethan’s new school, and his home for the next year.

  
Ethan tugs the brown, fleecy suit jacket closer to him, the pad of his thumb tracing over the embroidered patch of the school’s crest on the lapel. It’s a part of his school’s uniform; not actually that warm, but the snug feeling is comforting, in a way.

Ethan knew his parents hadn’t _wanted_ to send him to a boarding school in the middle of nowhere, they hadn’t _wanted_ to leave him alone.

He remembers his parents hushed arguments over it, disputes muffled by the kitchen walls while Ethan pretended to just enjoy listening to his music at deafening decibels. He hadn’t want to hear. He hadn’t wanted to know; or admit any of this was happening, really.  
Misplaced jealousy burns in his chest for his brother, who had graduated just in time to not have to deal with any of this. The fury dries out his throat like he’s swallowed a campfire. Coughing up smoke and bitterness.

He knew it was a sensible decision. What with how frequently his mother, and by extension Ethan and his father, were going to be moving over the next year; it seemed nonsensical to put him in a school, only to transfer him out less than a month later.

Again; he knew the decision had been sensible, but that didn’t make it suck any less.

  
Ethan hadn’t noticed the car roll to a stop until the crunch of gravel caught his attention. The driver stepping out of the car, making quick work of popping the trunk and pulling out Ethan’s suitcase.

Ethan fumbles with the silver door-handle, stumbling out of the car and trying to brush the wrinkles out of his school uniform, as if straightening his jacket would smooth the unsureness off his shoulders.  
Ethan winces into the bright grey sky, before bowing his head under the damp air, droplets drizzling onto his hair and down his neck. Ethan inhales the scent of fresh grass and shuffles quickly toward the trunk, eyes scanning over the horizon. There were a few teenagers —he supposes he _could_ call them his schoolmates, but he’s not sure if he should just yet— huddled under awnings, or slouched against a few of the large oak trees, decorating the expansive courtyard.

  
Ethan flinches at the thud of his suitcase. He looks at the driver, who doesn't seem to notice; bending down to fish out Ethan his satchel —a light brown leather one that he’d put his electronics in, just to keep them safer— and handing it over.

  
“Thank you,” Ethan says, hating the way his voice croaks, and doing his best to cover it by clearing his throat.

The driver doesn’t seem to care.

Ethan runs his free hand through his hair, which is already dampening from the rain.  
He straightens the strap of his satchel on his shoulder, and quickly checks the contents. He finds his phone quickly and shoves it into his pants pocket. The weight is familiar and comforting.

  
The car’s trunk slams closed. Ethan doesn’t flinch this time.

“Admissions is through the main hall, first office on the right,” The driver says lazily, brushing past Ethan and back to the driver-side door. He opens and shuts it, and the car revs and putts a moment before rolling away.

“Right,” Ethan says into the dead air. His hand grips tight around the extended handle of his large suitcase and takes a breath before tugging it along. Toward the giant set of dark-oak doors in front of him and the small group of students using sheltering under the awning. Towards the giant, cathedral-like school.

Ethan tries not to slump his shoulders as he approaches it, doing his best to shuffle through the crowd without disturbing too much. He tugs harshly at his bag to get it up the —thankfully few— stone stairs, and to the door.

  
He was used to this, he reminds himself. Pretending that made it bother him any less. Pretending that made bearing the slings and arrows of their stares easier. Pretending, just long enough to duck through and inside.

  
  
Somehow, inside is worse.

  
The giant doors squeak open, and immediately Ethan is faced with rows and rows of unfamiliar students sitting at giant, dark wooden dining tables that sprawl across the dining hall. Arching and intricate windows glow grey against the dark, cobblestone walls; rain pattering down against them.  
All the students are clad in the same school uniforms, all matching his. Clean leather shoes, sensible brown crew-cut socks. Maroon bottoms —long, pleated skirts for the girls, stiff slacks for the boys—, white dress shirts with pearlescent buttons, and brown fleecy jackets.

Thankfully though, none of them turn to him. All too busy with their lunches, or studying, or chatting with their friends-

  
And Ethan is once again abruptly hit with another reason he hates this. Given the suddenness of the move, he’s not coming in at the beginning of the school year. He’s transferring a month into the semester, and arriving at one o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon.

Suddenly Ethan is incredibly glad for his socially-anxious decision to put on his own uniform on in the train bathroom, the engine rumbling under his feet like a warm thunderstorm. The cramped space had left him rumpled —and the car ride over certainly hadn’t helped— but it was better than showing up in what he’d _been_ wearing; a bright blue hoodie and navy sweatpants.

He’d rather not stick out like a bruised thumb, thanks. At least not any more than he has to, dragging his clunky old suitcase through school grounds.

“Through the main hall, first office on the right,” Ethan mutters to himself, doing his best to wrangle his anxious, ADHD brain onto task. He’d studied a few floor plans that were available online during his long, boring train-ride, wanting to avoid getting too terribly lost. But somehow none of the bright blue-prints did justice to the absolute _size_ of this cobblestone-labyrinth. It takes several minutes to get where he needs to go, passing students and trying hard not to get lost in the little noises; the scraping of forks across plates, the scratching pens against paper, the flutter of flipping pages in old books or the chatter and laughter of people.

  
He almost passes it when he gets there, a small oak door with a tiny copper-toned plaque on the door, simply reading ‘Central Admissions Office’.

He knocks, and when a muffled voice inside yells for him to come in, he enters.

  
The office is kind of cozy, in an oddly cold way. There’s bookshelves built into the walls, which are, of course, filled to the brim with old tomes, the higher shelves sporting a thin layer of dust, the lower ones balancing stray papers and the occasional trinket or empty-mug on them.

In the center of the room there’s a desk, and behind that desk is a woman. She has dark skin and tired posture.

“I’ll be with you in a second, hun,” she says. Her thick, brown hair pokes up from where her expression is buried in some kind of paperwork. It’s tied back in a pony-tail, streaks of grey that slide up from her temples. She’s wearing a warm looking outfit of what Ethan is quickly recognizing as the school colors, a dainty gold necklace peeking from under the fold of her dark-red turtleneck. A brown trench coat is slung across the back of her chair.

“Okay, so what do you need?” She asks, looking up at him. Her eyes are kind, and she blinks for a moment, looking like she’s trying to place his face; trying to recognize him, not knowing it’s a moot effort.

Ethan swallows.  
“I, uh, I’m the transfer student?” Ethan says, hand clutching the handle of his suitcase. His voice doesn’t crack this time, but it’s not smooth either. She perks up, an oddly energetic movement for someone of her age. She tucks the elegant fountain pen she’d been using behind her ear.

“Ah, that explains,” she hums, immediately gesturing warmly to the wooden chair opposite her.

“Please, sit.”

Ethan nods, tugging his suitcase so it’s right up next to the chair. The old wood squeaks as he sits down.

  
“It’s quite unusual for us to have someone transfer in late in the year,” she says. And Ethan knows she’s just trying to make conversation, but it still singes in his chest.  
“Is there any particular reason for that?”

“My… uh, my mother moves around a lot for work,” Ethan explains, with no grace to the words whatsoever.

He doesn’t specify anything else.

Whether or not she notices his vagueness, she doesn’t say anything. She just hums and sweeps a few papers from her desk. Revealing a golden, engraved nameplate.

Lydia Cachés, Head Administrator.

  
There’s an ancient computer set up in front of her, the keyboard is half-hidden under a messy-variety of papers that she efficiently clears away.

Ethan swallows, suddenly feeling a tad bit —and by that he meant a _lot_ — intimidated by her position in the school. But the woman in front of him didn’t seem to notice, her fingers clacking against the old keyboard.

“Ah, here you are,” Ms. Cachés says with a friendly smile, “Ethan Nestor-Darling, sophomore year, correct?”

Ethan swallows. His shoulders draw in on himself.

“Uh, actually I should be a Junior this year.”

She clicks on something.  
“Oh yes, of course. I’m just reading off your school records,” she says with a friendly hand wave. Then she pauses again.

  
“Hm… It says here that you didn’t officially finish your sophomore year,” she glances up at him. Her gaze feels stiffer now.

“Did something happen at your old school?”

“I, uh…” He pauses, tugging at the sleeve of his uniform, the tendons in his hand twitch and tense. He hates talking about this. He hates being reminded of it, but he can't exactly _lie_ ; certainly not to the head administrator.

He tries to ignore the growing forest-fire of anxiety in his chest.  
Ethan’s hand grips the arm of the chair tight, the wood creaking, protesting the strength of his grip.

“It burnt down,” he says.

“Oh,” she says. Her gaze flickers off of him, giving him room to breathe.  
He can’t blame her for not expecting his response, most people wouldn’t.

“Well, I can certainly hand wave that for the terms of the school year,” she says, clearing her throat.

“Thank you,” Ethan replies. Honestly more thankful that she was moving on, not pressuring him for any more answers.

  
Ethan waits as she scrolls through the computer, waiting for her to pause. Waiting for her to suddenly come across something incriminating or confusing, or even just end up referring him to the registrar. Then, inevitably, after he went through the pain of explaining about his old school yet again; for the registrar to refer him to someone else in admissions.  
Then for admissions to refer him back to the registrar, or to some advisor somewhere, and would get confused when Ethan brought up any of the other people he’d talked too, because it would turn out that none of them had ever existed. Or that they've been dead for ten years.

Because that’s just how Ethan’s luck ran.

  
But instead, Ms. Cachés just goes though the motions. She gives him a list of the classes he’s in, one of which is Honors —which surprises Ethan greatly, and he tries to argue his way out of it but she _insists_ that his scores on the entrance exam are high enough— and after she’s all done with that, she hands him a note. It’s some sort of pink slip that she’d signed, capping her nice fountain pen with a soft click. Ethan looks over it, and realizes it’s a written permission to be out and about during the school day. He’s not quite sure what to do with the freedom, but he’ll take it nonetheless.

  
“There you go,” she says sweetly.

“Oh, and-“ she cuts herself off, reaching into her desk, squeaking open a drawer and pulling out some kind of pamphlet. She uncaps and writes something down at the top with her nice fountain pen, and circles something else.  
She slides it across the desk.

  
“There’s a map in there, along with your room number and your key,” Ms. Cachés says with a smile. Pointing out exactly where his room is on the map. He nods like it’s the first time he’s seeing it, then stands. He tucks the key, old-looking and silver, safely into his satchel, along with the map and the permission slip.

Ethan thanks her quickly, before taking his bag and making his exit. Ms. Cachés nods and lifts her tea cup, revealing the a crescent stain on her saucer as she waves her goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

Ethan’s hair sticks to his forehead in damp, semi-blue curls, but no longer quite as miserably cold. It’s warmer up here at least. Not by much, but he supposes the smaller dorm rooms and long, identical hallways probably hold heat better than the gigantic hall.  
The wheels of his suitcase skip over the uneven stone-floors. Burnished copper vents, presumably connected to the school’s heating system, rattle against the stone, warming Ethan’s leather shoes as he walks past them. He keeps careful count of the doors he passes, double checking the plaque —which reads room three nineteen, matching the numbers scrawled onto the pamphlet— to find that his is not, in fact, tucked in some far off corner of a dungeon-like shadow, but instead, only a few rooms off from the main stairwell.

Taking another deep breath of the slightly murky air, Ethan knocks.

Nobody answers.

Ethan knocks again-

  
Then, momentarily, Ethan feels like an idiot —or, well, more of an idiot than he usually does— because he remembers that the school day is still in full swing, and everyone else is busy bustling between classes. His roommate included.

So, Ethan just plucks the key out of his pocket and pushes it in the lock, which accepts it surprisingly easily for how old they seem. The wooden door is heavy on its hinges, and Ethan has to heave it open with his shoulder to wedge his suitcase through.

  
The door closes as soon as he’s through, latching with a click. Ethan puts the key back in his pocket.

There’s one window centered on the far wall, separating the two beds tucked into the back corners, with two identical wooden dressers at the foot, and two desks in the remaining corners. The room is a perfect mirror if itself, aside from the hastily tidied right half, if the pile of clothes shoved halfway under the bed and against the wall are any indication. Its organizational system, to the extent there is one at all, could best be described as ‘minimalist chaos’.

The copper-toned desk lamp has been left on, glinting off some kind of trophy that is apparently being used as a paperweight. It casts warm, long shadows across the desk and the black and white pieces of an unfinished chess game.

  
Ethan dodges his roommates desk chair from where it had been dragged into the center of the room; apparently being used as a step-ladder to reach the partially-disassembled ceiling light.

Ethan barely succeeds in not bumping the precarious stack of coats —one of which seems to be the school uniform jacket, which Ethan presumes has to be a spare. Unless his roommate is just out, wandering without his— thrown over the back of the chair. His suitcase drags a trail into the dark carpet.  
Ethan flips his suitcase on its side, then hefts it up onto the bed, but he doesn’t open it up; not quite able to will himself to actually unpack. Not when this room still feels so foreign.

Not that keeping it empty will help with that much; he knows… but something about it feels wrong too disrupt.

It feels like there’s no history, no personality to this side of the room; beyond the smudged remnants of a stain on corner of the wall, and the worn creaking of the bed frame. No past, only infinite present.  
It feels like the kind of thing you shouldn’t disrupt.

  
So, Ethan just silently climbs onto the bed, feeling the springs squeak as he twists and leans his back against the cool wall; thick enough that Ethan can’t hear anything beyond.  
  
It feels familiar to be alone. Not nice; just familiar.

  
He tucks his legs close to his chest and reaches, stretching out his arm until his hand is just barely able to brush aside the red velvet curtains, he leans forward, peering out into the grey daylight.  
City lights in the middle-distance smear over the rainy window, tangled in the branches of a very-near, very tall oak tree like Christmas lights that’d been left and overgrown. A few of the branches tap at the window, rhythmic and faint in the window; ticking.

Ethan leans back. The curtains fall back into place, they only sway for a moment before going still again.  
The cool weight of the stiff air numbs him from moving, but his mind is a half-burnt-out LED, always flickering and never steady for long.

He shifts to pull his phone out, pressing the power button several times before realizing it’s out of battery.

Groaning, Ethan looks for another distraction.

He could unpack. Get out his charger and his computer; but that means making decisions about where he should put things. That means moving around the space and _thinking._

And that sucks.

  
So the infinite battle against the unstoppable force (his boredom) and the immovable object (his laziness), rages on. And in the end, neither win.  
Instead, his stomach grumbles. And Ethan quickly realizes that all he’s eaten today were some shitty train pretzels and half a ham-and-cheese sandwich an old lady had given to him on the train in return for helping move her overhead luggage around.

And hunger, the instinctual urge that it is, is enough to prompt him to stand. He shoves his wallet into the same pocket as his key, and, after a moment of debate, brings down the pamphlet as well. Just in case.

There’s a few kids scattered about, lingering during their free period or returning from their lunchtimes. The stone archways carry the noise, a cave system of echoes that make Ethan feel a little less alone.

He goes down the main stairwell —a task that’s significantly easier while not lugging around a heavy suitcase— and passes through the common room. Through the scattered couches and pillows that are tucked tight around dead fireplaces.

  
A small group of the freshmen brush by, traveling like prey in a pack, they’re closed in on themselves. They’re afraid.  
Ethan doesn’t blame them, even as a hollow feeling settles in his chest. A few months ago, he could’ve easily passed as one of them. Huddling, shying away from sudden sounds, slipping behind others to camouflage within.

  
Not anymore.

Ethan slips out into one of the main hallways, and is immediately greeted by larger herds of students. The few minutes that exist between classes have the hallways full and flowing, bumping him against streams of bodies, all rushing like a flood. Loud enough that it creates a cacophony in his ears; his brain vibrates in his skull like a just-rung bell. The river of students flow quickly to their destinations, catching him in the crashing waves of bodies that all most certainly know this place better than him.

  
He pulls himself out of the tides crowd as quick as he can manage. Fearing drowning if he doesn’t pull himself ashore.

¶¶¶

Ethan finds himself in a library.

His feet tap and slow along the mahogany floors. The more distance he gets from the crowd, the quieter it gets. He straightens his uniform as best he can, smoothing his hands down his rumpled cotton shirt and re-buttoning his fleecy jacket.

His eyes glance over the large open space, over the large towers of bookcases and tall-walls covered in soulless, abstract art in dainty victorian frames.

  
The sun peeks out from the skylights, and golden rays cast through stained-glass windows, shining onto particles of dust which dance in the shine like warm snowflakes.

He ventures deeper, up a creaky, twisted staircase to the second floor. It feels cozier up here. Maybe it’s the wine-red rugs or the shorter bookshelves that no longer tower, but instead stand like trees in a forest. Belonging.  
The silence here is gentler, somehow. Maybe it’s just that he can hear the whispers of students studying, the faint shuffle of feet across rugs and the hushed flip of pages. It’s not muffled like it was in the dorm —he cant call it ‘his dorm’ yet, it just doesn’t feel right— but it’s not abrasive like the crowd.

Something about the smell reminds him of his grandmother’s old house, and he tries to ignore any feeling that gives him other than warmth.

  
His outstretched hand bumps along the spines of the books on the shelves he passes, creating a small but steady thud-thud-thud of fingers on hard-backed leather. Occasionally bumping against chilled wood or stony wall as he nears the back of the room.

The texture grounds him a bit, but the hollow feeling in his chest holds strong.

He fishes the pamphlet out of his pocket, opening the nimble laminated paper to the map. The upper-floor of the library is hard to tell apart from the lower floor, and as he looks over the diagram he narrows his eyes.

Now, Ethan’s well aware that his memory isn’t the greatest. But, from what he can recall from the original building blueprints he’d looked up… there was something missing.

There should be something connected to the library.

He remembered looking it up on some old website, seeing alumni bragging on their website about how ancient it was; a tower with a telescope and a _real sundial_ built into the floor, perfect for teaching about the stars and planetary movements.

  
Curious, Ethan wanders around along the far wall for a while. Dragging his hand along the shelves, and looking any kind of entrance.

Sure enough, he finds one.

It’s blocked off by a heavy, iron book-cart. Shoved in front of the door as a makeshift barricade, with a small, hand-written sign that has been taped to the front, declaring it ‘ _temporarily under construction_ ’ and ‘ _out of school bounds_ ’.

  
Ethan opens up the pamphlet fingers skimming over the waxy paper's text-

He finds among the footnotes —just under something about renovations in the conservatory due to an old, gigantic tree almost reaching the roof— and it tells him, simply enough, that the ‘astrology tower’ was being remodeled. Apparently it _‘will not be included on the map because it is not within roaming bounds for students’_.  
The pamphlet goes on with something about trespassing, urging him to _‘see page one for a list of rules, and penances for rule breaking’_.

Ethan does not look at page one. Not just because he doesn’t want to-

He doesn’t have time.

Ethan feels it in the floor, the reverberations of people running, feet slamming on the creaky staircase.

Ethan’s heart kicks to life like a car in need of a jump-start.

  
Someone is yelling from downstairs, something like ‘ _get back here_ ’, or ‘ _stop right there_ ’. Ethan knows the tone, the anger, well enough that the words don’t need to register.  
Ethan moves between the shelves, peeking out. His hands twitch with restless energy. With fear.

Ethan is pretty sure he shouldn’t be feeling so much nostalgia from a panic that feels like it’s kicking him in the ribs, but he shrugs it off. Or he would, if he could _move_.

  
The footsteps get closer. Three sets of feet. Fleeing.  
Another four- no, five sets. Chasing.

Outnumbered.

A boy a little older than him rounds the corner. His shoulders are tense and heavy. His dyed, bright-red hair is brushed back by wind, or maybe just the force at which he’d been sprinting. His chest is steadily heaving with effort, uniform rumpled and missing his jacket.

His two friends are keep close to his heels, a shorter blur of green hair ducks quickly behind the other two. He’s holding something. Whispering in a thick accent. He asks ‘Tyler’ what the hell they’re supposed to do.

The third and tallest boy replies by shielding him, his glasses are skewed. The tall boy, Tyler, Ethan presumes, looks back to the Red-haired boy. Following his movements like particularly exhausted shadow.

  
Their pursuers yell again. Trying to coax and goad out of hiding. None of them respond- at least they’re not that stupid.

Ethan knows they haven’t noticed him yet.

They’re trapped. Looking amongst each other for answers. For any kind of plan.  
They back up and bump tight against the bookshelves, backing themselves into a literal corner. Their eyes fleet back and fourth, searching for escape.

Something about it makes Ethan’s shoulders straighten.

  
He knows what it looks like to be chased. And something about this situation, about the way the trio keep shifting, all sort-of trying to protect each-other, pinning themselves against the wall-

Ethan swallows, standing up taller.

His fuck-it reflex has fully kicked in.

Ethan glances around. Calculating. Ready.  
This place is old enough he shouldn’t have to worry about any built-in security features. But he does a sweep anyway for something wireless, glancing across wood and stone walls for the familiar dark glint of a camera.

He turns up empty.

Good.

Ethan works quickly but silently. He knows how to muffle his footsteps, he has years of experience.  
Ethan can hear their pursuers moving around the floor.  
He can tell that the trio are focused on that too, enough that they don’t notice his approach until he’s mere feet away. Still tucked, hidden mostly behind a well-stocked bookshelf.

The green haired boy jumps when he notices. He almost swears, but the tall one, Tyler, slaps a hand over his mouth before he can.  
The red haired one just stares. Dark almond eyes pierce through him; trying to figure out if he’s friend or foe.

  
Ethan doesn’t move. He slowly lifts his finger up to his lips, hushing them from noise that they aren’t making.

  
After a long moment, Red-haired-boy’s tanned face contorts, confused. Like he doesn’t know what to make of Ethan. Like he’s trying really hard to recognize him, and coming up blank.  
Ethan’s getting used to that.

He waves his hand in the universal motion for ‘come here’. Inevitably, the trio hesitates. The tall one’s arm is outstretched in front of his friends. They all look protective of each other. The green-haired boy is still holding that box; but he seems ready to throw it at someone if necessary.

It’d be sweet, if it weren’t so damn inconvenient.

  
Ethan bites back a sigh, but quickly relents. He shuffles away, back to the door to the astrology tower. He makes sure to telegraph his every move; keeping his footsteps quick, but still silent.

He can feel their eyes on him, tracking. It’s a chess game with no way to predict the next move. A stand off.

Emotions burn in Ethan’s chest like a garbage-fire, spreading an uneven warmth through his chest, but leaving his hands cold.

And Ethan does what he’s always done when confronted with fire; he watches it burn, and then he runs away.

But this time, he’s not going to leave anyone behind.

  
The book cart makes a horrible squeal as its moved. And- realizing that it’s definitely attracting their pursuer’s attention, he gives up on being quiet.

“This way!” Ethan yells. It feels wrong, yelling in a library, but he does it anyway.

The trio look between themselves.

Just at the same time, one of the pursuer’s yells out a ferocious ‘ _get back here!_ ’.

Ethan slams his shoulder into the door, and the lock snaps.

Ethan doesn’t waste such time to look back to make sure they’re following. He’ll give them an escape route, sure. A distraction even. But he’s not about to pin himself to the wall for a few strangers; no matter how much they uncomfortably remind him of himself.

Ethan throws open the door and vaults forward- ignoring the biting cold wind that slaps him in the face as soon as he does so. The tower is windowless but there are enough holes in the wall that the cold sinks in anyway.

His feet hit the stone floor, and he runs up the spiral staircase. It’s sheltered enough that there’s no rain, so he doesn’t need to worry about slipping-

They’re right behind him. Ethan can feel them moving, he twists back just enough to see the blur of hair-color; brown, green, red.

Ethan lets out a laugh he didn’t realize he had in him, and he speeds faster. Their feet collectively thud up the stairs. Creating a bombastic, echoing drum solo that follows them to the top.

Ethan gets to the top of the tower first. Adrenaline pumps through his system. Just like it used to during gymnastics, after he got through a perfectly clean routine.

His muscles ache for him to keep going; loving the rush, the push. His lungs feel open, like he’s breathing for the first time. He’s grinning, wide enough it feels like its splitting open his face; cracking open the unfeeling mask he’s been wearing for far too long.

  
He feels free.


	3. Chapter 3

Mark makes it to the top of the tower first out of his friends.

Mark barely avoids tripping on the sundial engraved into the floor, wincing up into the brightness of the open, glass-roofed room.  
The wind is cold up here, carrying the smell of pine trees. His heart is pounding. His legs ache a little.  
Mark ventures toward one of the ancient wooden benches, its dark, weathered by time, and creaks dangerously as he leans against it.

“Jaesus fuck!” Sean says, panting, but keeping close behind. The box is still tucked tightly under his arm. Tyler seems to be fairing only slightly better; adjusting his glasses to make sure they don’t fall off.

They’re all breathing hard; sprinting up a steep spiral staircase will do that to most people.  
He thinks _most people_ , because there seems to be one exception to this rule.

The boy they followed is already here. He’s facing an old window, grinning like a man set free. He leans into the sunshine like it’s his first time feeling it.  
Mark tries once again to recognize him, but comes up blank.

  
He doesn’t know this kid, and that irritates him. He prides himself on his ability to never forget a face.

And yet, somehow, this kid slipped under his radar.  
It unnerves him.

The kid isn’t even plain looking. His face is pale and smattered with freckles and the occasional spot. He has a strong profile, a good jawline.  
In fact, he looks kind of like he’d recently stepped out of an old, sepia-toned photograph, taken on a prairie or ocean coast somewhere. Bright blue hair windswept and carrying an air of sea-salt and smoke.

  
Mark stares at him like a textbook page he needs to memorize.

Tyler elbows him, and Mark’s known him long enough to get that it means Tyler’s noticed him staring.

Mark looks at him flatly.

Tyler shifts, eyebrows raised and eyes soft in a silent ’ _you okay?_ ’, to which Mark shrugs. Sean looks at both of them-

The boy turns toward their group. He looks oddly content to’ve just been running for his life. His feet click on the stone floor as he walks toward them-

And Mark realizes, suddenly, that he doesn’t know the kids name.  
So, he goes to introduce himself.

“I’m-“

The strange boy slaps a hand over Mark’s mouth, so suddenly that it stings. His palm is warm, firm and calloused. There’s a burn scar on his right upper-forearm, barely peeking out from where he’s rolled up his sleeve.

Tyler is immediately making his way between them; shoulders pressed, ready to defend him-

“Don’t incriminate yourself,” the boy says softly, his eyes flick around the room like he's looking for something. “I don’t know if someone could overhear, so don’t say your name until we’re out of here, Red-boy.”

“Red-boy?” Sean asks, pausing at the nickname. Mark just takes a step back; thankful when the boy’s hand doesn’t follow. Falling to his side.

He tugs down his sleeve.

“Red...? Is it my hair?” Mark asks, running his hands through the offending locks.  
It’s getting long again, and the dye job is definitely fading. He knew it would happen, being here for a month, with strict dress codes that made it hard to re-dye.

“It’s the most interesting thing about you,” the boy reasons, shrugging.  
Mark’s eyes widen. It doesn’t sound like the boy means to be rude, especially judging by how he tenses. He opens his mouth like he’s going to apologize-

But Tyler and Sean are laughing.

“Whelp, e’s figured ya’ out, Red-boy,” Sean says between wheezing laughter, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Tyler just keels over slightly, wheezing.

“Alright,” Mark says into the silence, grinning good-naturedly.

“Let’s go then, Blue.” He’s not sure what he expects the kid’s reaction to be, but the ferocious grin he sports feels oddly… right.

Blue walks back over to the window, and they follow. Grinning-  
And then Blue is shimmying open the window, and climbing out. He keeps one hand firmly hooked on the strong frame.

The rest of the group pause.

“Come on, let’s get to it,” Blue says quickly. He seems incredibly secure in his own physical ability, and shockingly willing to just- hang out of a window, several stories above ground.

Mark steps forward first. He doesn’t really know what’s going on, or what Blue’s escape plan was, or even why he’s bothering to help them out; but he’s not exactly going to have his friends take the leap first.

“What do you mean?” Mark asks, moving closer anyway. Blue’s grip stays steady as he leans back in the window, offering his free hand.

“We’re gonna jump.” He says. Like it’s the most obvious thing ever.

“What do you mean, ‘jump’?” Tyler says. His hand reaches out instinctually, finding Mark’s forearm. Fingers tangling in his cotton sleeve, as if that’s all that’s holding Mark back from leaping off the ledge.

“Er, I mean this in ‘e kindest wae possible,” Sean prefaces, “but are ya’ fuckin’ mental?”

Blue lets out a laugh. It’s oddly sweet sounding, kind of melodic.

“Not relevant,” Blue says, smiling again.

Mark feels like it’s a _little_ bit relevant.

“We’re, like, three fuckan’ stories up!!” Sean protests loudly.

“Lethal fall hight is four to seven stories,” Blue says quickly. “And whoever was chasing you guys isn’t going to give up.”

He seems sure of that; like he’s got experience in being chased.  
Mark doesn’t have time to dwell on that thought.

“We’ve bought some time, but you’re still backed pretty well into a corner here-“

“Four to seven stories is actually the _median_ lethal fall distance,” Tyler corrects.

“A fall gets really dangerous at about forty eight feet. Which we are _definitely_ above.” Tyler has that disappointed-parent look on, but he’s already folding his glasses up carefully within the pocket.  
It sends mixed signals about how on-board he is.

Blue, however, just rolls his eyes.  
“Look. Do what you want,” he says. There’s that chill in his tone again, a reminder that they really don’t know who this kid is. What he’s capable of.

“But I want to help.”

Mark wants to ask ‘ _why_ ’. He wants to ask ‘ _who are you_ ’ and ' _what are you doing here_ ’ and ‘ _how have I never seen you before_ ’ and ‘ _how do you know this’ll work_ ’-

He settles on something simpler.

  
“What’s your plan then?”

Blue leans back out the window, looking out at something, and Mark’s heart thrums in his chest; screaming of the instinctual danger that is falling, a danger that the boy doesn’t seem to feel.  
He only notices he’s moving forward again as Tyler’s grip on his sleeve tugs him back.

“Well,” Blue says, smiling back inside, “I said we’re gonna jump, not that we’re gonna fall.”

Sean and Tyler blink.  
Sean folds his arms protectively around the box, but he too seems to be steeling his nerves for what’s ahead.

Blue continues.  
“The conservatory rooftop is only a little ways off. I was thinking, I mean,” Blue swallows. It seems like as the adrenaline wears off, he looses some his nerve.  
But he continues anyway.

“I figured I could help throw you guys across the gap, and we’ll make our way back in through the skylights. I-”

Sean goes to speak, but Blue stops so abruptly that Sean’s words go with him.  
Mark doesn’t understand why until, moments later, his ears twitch at the sound.  
  
Footsteps.  
Their pursuers are on the stairs.

Fuck.

Mark doesn’t think. There isn’t time to.

He just grabs Blue’s outstretched hand.  
It’s warmer than he expected.

“Let's do this,” Mark grins. He doesn’t bother listening to Tyler and Sean in the background.

Blue grins right back, awkwardness sliding away.

  
“You know how to duck and roll?” Blue asks, already gripping tight at his arm. His deceptive upper body strength tugs Mark up, and he feels weightless for a second as he plants his feet on the sill, shifting his shoulders to get duck outside the window.

Mark almost forgets to nod.

A gust of wind hits his face, and the other rooftop feels both closer than expected- and farther away.

It’s not a long jump, but it does look like a far fall.  
The grass section below has a few students under it. Several birds fly by.

Somewhere inside, he can hear the urgent calling of Tyler. He can hear Sean protest that there must be some other way to do this-

But it's lost on him as another gust of wind blows past, leaving a cold tingle on his skin as Blue’s warm hands steady him.

“Three,” Blue counts him down slowly. It’s more polite than he was expecting; kind of presuming that he’d just be thrown across and left to fend for himself mid-air.

Mark leans farther out the window.

“Two,“ Blue’s voice is close, close enough that his breath tickles the side of Mark’s ear. His heart thuds in his chest, adrenaline pushes him forward. Mark steadies his feet, bending his knees-

“One!” He is shoved into the jump, and the extra momentum careens him through the air. Wind lashes at his face-

His feet hit solid roof. He rolls out the momentum, his shoulder aches from an uneven impact as he stumbles some.  
A flock of birds startles and takes flight at the loud thudding sound. Soaring off into the tree-line.  
He regains his footing quick.

Mark twists immediately and looks up at them. It doesn’t seem like that far of a leap from town here, but Blue looks worried anyway.

So he ignores his pained shoulder and shoots the boy a bright grin and a thumbs up.

Blue nods fondly and turns back to the tower. Dragging an unappreciative Sean onto the sill. His footing is worse than Blue’s by a mile, shifting awkwardly and leaning heavily on him.

Mark does his best to be supportive, and not yearn too hard for a camera with which to capture his friend’s pale expression and the way his nails dig into Blue’s hands.

“I’ll spot you!” Mark calls out. Stifling his laughter.

They go through the same motions, quicker this time.

Sean lets out a curse of Irish swearwords as he leaps- he doesn’t stumble as much as Mark did landing; maybe that’s just because Mark grabs him before he can.

“You okay?” Mark asks, looking down at the smaller, who’s still panting and flushed, but laughing along now.

“All good. Bu’ I dunno how much time they’e got,” Sean reports. Mark swallows harshly.

Tyler is up next.  
He’s quicker than Sean with planting his footing and doesn’t wait for the count down.

There’s a panic in his posture that tells Mark just how close they are to being caught-

Mark’s brain scratches to a halt just as Tyler slams onto the roof.  
Mark instinctually reaches out to grab him. Hold him steady.

“Where’s the box?” Mark asks, staring at Sean.

“Gave it to Ty-“ Sean cuts himself off, maybe because of what Blue said about revealing names, or maybe because he’s also realizing that neither of the three of them have it.

“I gave it to Blue.” Tyler says, giving Mark a squeeze as a silent ‘ _it’s okay_ ’.

Mark looks up.

  
Sure enough, Blue is still there. He’s saying something though, which means that their pursuers have caught up to him.

Time stops around him. 

Mark watches an arm swing out towards him, and he knows Blue’s about to get caught and torn to shreds. Blue isn’t even moving, just ducking down, dodging the arm, like that’ll save him. 

  
His feet are on the ledge as he leans back. The box pressed between his forearms, keeping his hands free. Tilting beyond the point of no return-

Mark’s pulse jumps.

The hand reaches out to snatch at Blue’s coat- to grab him-

Except Blue doesn’t just fall.

  
He launches off his feet, arms swinging backwards and momentum carrying him over the ledge.

He tucks- _flipping_ , Mark realizes. Twice in the air, tight and professional, landing somehow solid and doing a handspring back to loose momentum. He doesn’t stop though. With quick feet, Blue narrowly twists his body to avoid the jutting brick that Mark had stubbed his shoulder on.

His feet slide and catch on the rough rooftop before he’s able to push off and run in the opposite direction.  
Box still in his hands.

The astronomy tower overflows with furious yelling, the window brims with faces and arms screaming and grasping at nothing.

And Blue waves over his shoulder at their pursuers; but he never stops.

“Come on,” Blue says casually, as the rest of them have to scrape their jaws from the rough rooftop. None of them even speak.  
Blue doesn’t seem to notice. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe he’s just spacey. Mark doesn’t know.

“Odds are they aren’t ballsy enough to try that kinda jump, but I don’t wanna push our luck,” he says. And they all just keep going.

“To be fair, _we_ almost weren’t ballsy enough to do that jump,” Mark says first, quickly regaining his ability to talk. Letting out a laugh as Tyler and Sean have to take a second to gather their voices.

“Sorry, I can't fuckin'-“ Sean says, letting out a scream, then a laugh. This situation is just so absurd.  
Mark slows his jog a little to keep with Sean’s pace.

“Yeah we got hella lucky,” Tyler says, his feet heavy on the rooftop as they all pick up speed.

It’s true. They got lucky this time.

Mark isn’t sure what would have happened without Blue’s unexpected saving grace.  
He doesn’t really want to think about it.

  
His feet slam quick across the rooftop. Thankfully not slipping, even on the still damp rooftop. Cool wind buffets around them.

Sure, it may not be the _safest_ thing they’ve ever done. But it’s definitely not the _least_ safe.

Mark would wonder what that said about his life, just as soon as he caught up to Blue; who, fucking hell, didn’t even seem _winded_. Arms still pumping with practiced precision, breath still even and strong.

He had to be some kind of athletic prodigy; or maybe something superhuman. That’s the only explanation.

  
The only way Mark can tell that the kid hasn’t done this a thousand times is the careful swivel of his head, evaluating where to go, where to put his feet.

Mid run, Blue straightens up his rumpled school uniform, brushing thin fingers through his hair. And Mark kind of wants to laugh at how casual it looks. How easy.

  
Mark likes to think he’s in shape. But he knows he’s not a stamina man. Wrestling is all about power, being sudden and strong. Sure, there was some amount of holding out against your opponent- but nothing like _this_.

_Nothing like flipping out of the window of a four story building sprinting for twenty minutes straight_.

God. This kid’s absolutely insane.

Mark smiles to himself.

He’s gonna fit in just perfectly.


	4. Chapter 4

Cool wind brushed over their skin as they slowed to a jog. Most panting heavily.  
Mark feels he has to clarify _most_ , because, once again, there’s one notable exception to this.

Blue is still heading the pack, leading them onward, but the view of the back of his head makes it hard for Mark to get any sort of gist for what he was thinking. His shoulders are tense as they work with his momentum. His blue hair and jacket ruffle against a diagonal gust.

His head swivels, and the bare glance Mark can get of his expression gives him nothing to work with.  
Blue still looks cold.

The steady thump and thunder of his footsteps slow, though, the crunch of the rough concrete roof under him softening.

Mark can tell his friends are glad for the new pace. Their school uniforms are crumpled under the weight of their heavy breathing. Tyler uses the cuff of his sleeve to swipe the sweat off his brow, and adjusts his glasses from where they keep slipping down his nose.  
Mark feels quite glad he wore contacts today.

  
He looks over to Sean, who seems kind of like he’s about to keel over.  
Not a great look for someone on a rooftop, especially since Blue had given him back the package. Mark would offer to carry it, but he knew that would be denied. No matter how tired Sean grew.  
Even so, Mark sways his movement to keep his small friend just a little bit closer.

He wants to ask how Sean is doing, but the ragged breathing feels like enough of an answer.

“What’s the plan?” Mark asks instead, despite his own aching legs and labored breathing. His voice comes out rough.

  
Blue doesn’t look at him, but he does slow down a little more. Almost like he forgot they were there, used to just… running.

“Conservatory rooftop,” Blue answers a tad bit breathily. Continuing to slow so they’re almost at a walking pace.  
Mark ignores the dry, iron taste in his mouth.

“We’re gonna use one of the skylights to get back in,” Blue says.

“Think we can, uh, use the _tree_ , as.. as a _ladder_ … to get back in?” Tyler asks between heavy breaths, catching up quickly and slowing his own pace. It’s a pretty good plan, for one made up so on-the-fly.

“I mean, _yeah_?” Blue says, like he’s submitting his escape plan as peer reviewed essay.  
He stops walking, and Sean’s slow pace pretty much entirely drops; hands on his knees, leaned over and breathing hard.

“It, uh,” Blue says, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding eye contact. He seems guilty; maybe for not noticing how tired they were. Maybe for something else entirely.

“It won’t be the _safest_ thing ever, but it’s-“

If Mark had the breath to spare, he would’ve laughed. His legs ache a little bit. He kind of wants to sit down- even on the slanted, dirty rooftop.  
Blue looks at him, gaze incredibly careful as Mark wheezes out a half-chuckle anyway.

“You literally backflipped out of a _four story tower_ ,” Mark says slowly, grinning anyway, “I feel like your standards for ‘safety’ are _wild,_ to say the least.”

Tyler laughs.  
Sean cracks a smile between long, shaky breaths.

“I knew I’d be fine.” Blue reasons, his face flushing slightly. He crosses his arms, like he’s trying to hold onto himself.

“I have practice in falling,” he says, slightly quieter.  
  


Mark’s mouth opens- But Blue quickly waves his hand, like he’s trying to wave them past the topic as smoothly as possible.

“Sides, what other options were there?” Blue asks hypocritically. Like he wasn’t the one who led them into the tower in the first place-

“Why do I feel like having ‘ _practice_ ’ isn’t a good thing,” Tyler asks, and Mark has to crack a smile at that.  
He’s known Tyler long enough to know, even with the flat tone, that he’s joking.

“I mean, how often are you leaping out of windows?” Tyler says dramatically.

Sean wheezes, Mark’s pretty sure it’s supposed to be a laugh. He looks back at Blue-

But the odd sourness in Blue’s expression just deepens.

Mark looks at him, and Blue catches his eye- then flushes slightly. Mark can’t tell if it’s because of the cold, the endurance of running, or some kind of embarrassment.  
Mark goes to quip back, help lighten the odd mood, turning toward Tyler-

But the way Blue shifts, looking away- no, _not away_ , Mark realizes.

_Toward the edge of the roof._

  
Mark’s heart leaps again.

It's an edge, Mark realizes, that he’s only a few paces away from.

  
His quip dies on his tongue. And Tyler —and Sean, who’s been too busy catching his breath to speak up— watch Blue’s movements, which are sluggish and slowed.

“I…” Blue pauses, swallowing.  
There’s a distance in his eyes, like he’s forgotten where he is. Or maybe he’s _trying_ to forget something else.

  
A long gust of wind brushes through him. It ruffles around Blue, but doesn’t touch him; like he isn’t even there.

“I knew I’d be fine.” Blue repeats with a low sort of shrug, he looks back toward them. There’s more weight to his hazel gaze. Maybe more weight then there should be in someone so young.

Blue opens his mouth, and there’s a million things he could say.

But Blue just settles on a simple, quiet: “I’ve faced worse.”

It’s the kind of thing people say in movie scenes, cut with dramatic lighting and a bludgeoning wind; maybe even a beautiful blonde draped over their arm.  
But Blue just… says it. Like it’s the best way to describe his situation; like it’s the only way he knows how.

And Mark, well, Mark doesn’t even feel himself move. He barely feels the stiff prickle of icy wind on his face-

But he does feel the soft, starched cuff of Blue’s sleeve in his fingers. He feels the way Blue tenses —the fight-or-flight activation that he’d been sorely lacking while hanging out a four story window, finally seeming to activate—, then forcibly relaxes. Minuscule motions, things Mark would have never picked up on had be been paying any less attention-

But Blue is so quick. So slippery, that the boy’s honestly _confused_ , and _fond_ look catches him off guard. Like he’s about to giggle at a friend’s overreaction.

  
And Mark- Mark’s always been a talker.  
He’s always been good with words, with making people feel comfortable, with breaking the tension.

But right now, all he can really do is hold Blue’s sleeve. A lifeline with the other end leading right off the roof-edge. While Blue pretends nothing’s wrong at all.

“Then let’s be glad we won’t be facing any other… situations,” Mark says, before he can really stop himself.  
“Alright?”

“I mean, 'e can sure 'ope so,” Sean says. Mark can hear the tension in his voice, more at Mark’s actions than anything else. But —just like Mark— he seem similarly lost as to what to do about it.

Mark hears the shuffle of Tyler’s weighted feet move slightly closer. The tall presence shifts, like he's trying to make himself smaller. Less threatening, maybe. 

“No more unplanned, deadly stunts tonight,” Tyler says, low.

Mark doesn’t tear his eyes away from Blue, though.

The boy’s pale face creases with focus, hazel eyes bright and solely focused to Mark’s grip.  
Like he’s confused to why it’s not gone; why Mark’s still worried at all.

And Blue’s jaw undulates, slowly; clenching and relaxing as he thinks.  
Mark feels like he can feel the vibration of the gears turning in Blue’s head- that, or Blue's _shaking-_

Mark tries to speak, but...

Those striking hazel eyes, so crystalline yet so hidden, like frosted glass. Blue's lips press to a thin curve, paled by the bright sunshine peeking through a grey, chilled sky.

And then, Blue nods.

“Yeah,” Blue says, like he’s been convinced of something.  
Mark has no idea what.

It feels important.

“Yeah,” Blue repeats, “no more 'un-planned death-defying stunts' tonight,” he says, with proper finger quotes- at least, with his free hand. His other hand is still limp. Mark can feel Blue's warmth emanate through the stiff fabric.

Something about it doesn’t really feel too convincing- and it’s even worse as Blue just, _grins_.

For some reason, Mark feels there’s something going over his head.  
But he has no idea where the deception lay, or where he should look if there were one.  
  


He doesn’t even know where to start.


	5. Chapter 5

“You did say _unplanned_ , death-defying stunts,” Blue says with a grin. And Sean kind of regrets everything in his life.  
The wind shutters past over the conservatory rooftop. The green plexiglass panels under their feet should hold just fine, but Mark lingers over the support beams, just in case.   
Blue is holding out one of the dark-red pamphlets they gave out at orientation, narrowing his eyes over the laminated map, like that’s gonna give him more information on how the fuck to get out down.

  
“Yeah, cause it’s so much better that this is _planned,_ ” Tyler says, crossing his arms but waiting patiently anyway.

Blue folds up the pamphlet and sticks it in his pocket. Then, with quick motions, Blue bends down and grips the edge of the closed skylight, his fingers pale to a white-knuckle grip on the cold edge as he creaks it slowly open-  
Tyler quickly steps up and helps him heft it open more fully.

“Of course it is!” Sean says, sarcasm weighing down his tone.

“I’s just climbing a giant fükin’ tree, into a secure greenhouse, the’ we have _zero authorization_ to be in,” Sean continues, throwing his hands into the empty air. “And ‘en escaping! Somehow,” he says, his arms fall to his sides.

“Of course,” Blue says, like he didn’t catch _any_ of the obvious sarcasm, “easy peasy.”

Sean cannot tell if Blue is just taking the absolute piss, or if he’s actually denser than concrete.  
And when he looks over at Mark; he just laughs- the fucker.

They take another ten minutes to carefully evaluate the best way down.  
Sean tries not to look down. Even through the web of gigantic, thick branches, just the sheer _drop_ is enough to make anyone nauseous. So he, Tyler and Mark all sit farther from the now open skylight.

Blue, however, just sits at the edge. His legs dangling; kicking pleasantly like a child on a park-bench.   
And honestly, Sean isn’t sure if he even _wants_ to know.

¶¶¶

It’s so hard to tell what’s going on in this kids’ head.

Mark’s hands clench and release rhythmically, trying to distract himself from, well, _everything._

He never thought he’d say this, but being chased had it’s perks.  
Most notably; you didn’t get the chance to _think._ And no chance to think meant you didn’t have time to worry about how fucking strange and bizarre this whole thing was. About how horribly everything could go wrong. About how far there was to fall.

And Blue, as seems to be his entire shtick, just sort of smiles.

“Come on Green. We’re not even jumping this time,” Blue says, hanging happily from the edge of the skylight.

And Mark has to basically cement his feet to the smoothish, green tinted plexiglass rooftop to hold back from grabbing him and pulling him back up.

  
It was concerning when he was doing it out the tower window, at a ninety degree angle. Watching him do the same thing hanging _parallel_ to the ground, hooking his ankle off the corner and a hand from the frame, was somehow, even worse.  
Sure, they weren’t jumping. But they _were_ still sliding down the tallest limb of the school’s prized gigantic tree. Which, Mark could still admit, was still _kind of_ insane.

But the sooner they got done with this, the sooner Mark could relax, and not have to worry about any of his friends falling to their deaths due to pulling some ill-advised stunt.

“Well I’m _so fuckin’ sorry_ , that not all of us are fuckin,” Sean waves his hands, “parkour experts!” He exclaims. A few birds call from close-by.

“Where the fuck did you even learn that shit?”

“I was a gymnast,” Blue says; offering no other context. He swings back and fourth, his free foot just barely not hitting the branch below. They’d agreed to go from lightest to heaviest —excluding Blue, who would be helping lower them down—, just to make sure the branch doesn’t break.  
They may be stupid and reckless, but not even they wanted to risk the hundred foot fall to the conservatory floor, when it could be avoided at least.

“Now come on Green!” Blue chimes happily, “Green-Boy! Greanie beanie-“

“Oh my god! Shut up!” Sean exclaims fondly. Laughing. But he does eventually shuffle forward; careful.   
Wind skitters across the rooftop.

“God these fuckin’ nicknames are so bloody imaginative,” Sean says, rolling his eyes.   
He take’s Blue’s outstretched arm in a tight grip, squatting next to the edge of the opening, readjusting when Blue’s silver bracelet pinches his wrist.

“Yeah, definitely not,” Tyler agrees. He’s kneeling beside the skylight. Beside Blue. ‘Just in case’.   
One arm is braced around the edge, the other arm hanging free, ready to reach out and grab if necessary. It’s awkward, and if anybody’s looking up —and can see through the foliage—, then Tyler’s dark silhouette is bound to bring up questions. But Mark is pretty sure that _everything_ they’ve done today would bring up questions.

“Wait if you’re Green,” Tyler asks, “does that make me… Brown?” He frowns at the awkward implications.

“Nah, you’re ‘tall kid’.” Blue says lightly.   
  
His grip is tight on Sean’s forearm.

“Now, you ready?” Blue asks, looking Sean dead in the eye; his tone is serious again.

“As I’ll ever fuckin’ be,” Sean says, chuckling darkly.

Sean doesn’t scream this time, which is good. He doesn’t even curse- well, not any more than his usual amount anyway. And the branch doesn’t shake, sturdy and thick enough that it holds his weight perfectly fine.

“Uh, ‘think ’m good,” Sean says, his voice warbling slightly under the strain as he tucks his legs tighter onto the branch.   
Blue nods, professionally, and lets his grip go. Sean quickly shifts to koala-hugging the thick tree branch, shimmying his way further down to make room.

“Wait… so, being tall is my most prominent feature?” Tyler asks as Mark prepares himself for the journey down.  
Evening out his breathing and taking Blue’s hand.

Blue’s grip is firm and warm, maybe even warmer than before, which is kind of odd. Even with the exertion, the buffeting wind should have cooled him at least slightly-

“I just think,” Mark says, grinning, “it’s your most defining trait,” he smiles, parroting off what Blue had told him earlier; spurning a laugh from his friends.

Mark looks at Blue, who nods.   
Ready.

  
Mark swallows, and does his best not to look down any more than he has to, just to find the branch- and he steps out into the nothing.

His grip on Blue instinctively tightens.   
It’s a long way down. An even farther fall than before.

But at least this time, Blue won’t let go.

Tyler leans forward again. His arm reaching out to spot Mark, but Blue’s impossible-upper-body-strength seems to have nearly no problem lowering him onto the branch. Mark keeps his hand tight until he can wrap his thighs tight around the rough bark of the branch. The bark scratches and prickles his flesh, even through the thin protection of his starched dress pants.

The world within the greenhouse feels warmer, slightly misty too. It smells like a botanical garden, all damp earth and greenery.  
From over the tree-limbs he can see a few other scattered plots, plants and man-made streams that look so small from up here.

“I’m clear,” Mark calls as he lets his grip loosen. A second later, Blue lets go, and Mark immediately reaches down to the branch below himself.   
He feels surprisingly stable.

“But still. My height?” Tyler says, still trying to keep up the humor, maybe just to feel a little less insane for what they’re doing.

Tyler stands and moves. It muffles his voice a little.  
“I feel vaguely objectified.”

“Nah, objectifying would be if ‘e called ya ‘Nice Tits’ or somethin’.” Sean calls out from both behind and below him.

Mark raises his hand instantly. Smile wide.

“I call being ‘Nice Tits’!” Mark calls.

It’s an awkward thing to do, half-wrapped around a tree branch. Still slowly scotching backward to make room for Tyler to come down-

But the way Blue and Sean crack up is worth it, even while Tyler sighs over-dramatically.

“I knew I should’ve called dibs,” Tyler says flatly, shaking his head, to which Blue lets out another barking laugh.

Sean continues to shimmy his way down to the crux of the branches, where he is finally able to lower himself down into a, far more dignified, monkey-like squat.   
Mark moves quickly behind him, but not too far.   
Just in case.

“I dunno, I think it suits me,” Mark says, grinning. He leans up, squeezing his arms together to frame his pecks, just for emphasis.

Tyler rolls his eyes, and gets ready.   
He takes Blue’s hand tightly.

Blue seems to struggle a little lowering Tyler. His bicep quakes tightly, a long day's exertion taking its tole- but Tyler’s tall enough that he doesn’t have far to go, before he’s safely tucked around the branch.

“Clear,” Tyler says, releasing his grip.   
Blue makes an acknowledging noise.

“You do have a bangin’ rack tho,” Sean says, nodding sagely as Mark finally shimmies down enough to be able to look at him. And Blue, who’s tugged himself back up on the roof to retrieve the box- is still giggling. And just as soon as he looks like he’s about to recover-

"I call being ‘Thicc ass’!” Sean suddenly yells. They all spiral into laughter again.   
Blue passes the box to Tyler, who passes it down the line until Sean can tuck it under one arm again.

“I’m not using any of these nicknames, by the way,” Tyler says.   
“I can’t call someone ‘Thicc Ass’ while running for my life.”

“Also, I hate to break it do you dude,” Mark places his hand on Sean’s shoulder, like an intervention. The sight is made even more inane by the fact that they're still tangled around tree branches. Sean has a twig stuck in his hair.

“But you’re not that thicc.”

Sean let out a loud, comical ‘noooo!’. Making sure to lower it, like he was a cartoon character falling down a mountain.   
Blue lets out another long laugh.

“Guys, Blue looks like he’s gonna die-“ Tyler says.

“You could say he’s getting… _Blue_ in the face?” Sean says; and Mark can tell he’s hit his comedy stride because he’s making terrible puns.

They all shuffle lower on the branches to make room for Blue, as he makes his way in.

He grips the edge of the skylight and tucks himself in with a veteran grace.   
His grip is tight but his descent is quick. He’s on the branch easily, not bear-hugging it like the rest of them had, and instead wrapping his legs around it. He shuffles back.

“Oh my god, your puns are terrible,” Blue says, rolling his eyes heavily. He tucks his posture for a moment before reaching down and grabbing at a lower branch. It’s slightly thinner, but seems to hold him just as well, as he swings to hang from it.

He’s still diagonally above them, but his route of descent seems a good bit more efficient. He’s agile and quick as he quickly catches up to only a branch above them.

“Careful, Blue,” Tyler calls at Blue's expedient motions.

Mark looks over, and Sean’s expression twists like he’s gonna make another bad joke-

“I’m going to strangle you,” Mark threatens his friend idly.

Sean looks over at him, and wiggles his eyebrows.

“Kinky.”

And Blue barks out a laugh-

His grip slips.

Mark’s heart stops.

His arm snatches into the air.   
He grabs something. An arm.

He tugs up ward, ready to use his whole body weight to heft backward-

But Blue is lighter than he expected- Like, impossibly lighter. Concerning amounts of lighter-

Mark hears the popping of thread and seams and looks up and slightly to his right, to realize: he’s not the only one who’s grabbed at him.

Tyler has Blue by the back of his jacket, looking kind of like a mother cat holding a kitten by it’s scruff.   
Sean has a solid, white-knuckled grip at Blue’s other shoulder, bunched into the fabric with his other arm wrapped around another strong branch.

Even Blue himself had somehow, reflexively wrapped his knees around a different tree branch- ready to swing around it like a bar.

  
There's a long pause while everyone takes a breath.

“Okay, new rule,” Mark says in his low, no-nonsense voice. Blue visibly stiffens at the lower register.

“Save the banter for when there’s no imminent danger of death by great hight. Or immanent danger at all, actually.”

“All in favor?” Tyler asks.

“Aye.” Sean says.

“Aye.” Mark says.

Their eyes turn to Blue, still held in their grips, but looking like he’s trying to escape them. Mark feels him wiggle in their grip, Blue’s legs twisting to take a tighter grip on the branch below him, so it can more fully support his weight.

Nobody lets go, though.

“Uh… aye…?” Blue says after a long pause. Everyone nods.

“Motion passed,” Mark confirms. “Now let’s get the _fuck_ out of this tree,” he says, and slowly, everyone lets go of Blue.

Tyler and Sean nod again, solid and serious. Tyler sticks tight at Blue’s side, spotting in case the boy falls again.

And for once, _Blue_ is the one who looks caught off guard. Eyes wide and brow pinched tight.

“Wait, what?” He asks quickly, “why the vote?” He asks as they all slowly, carefully, continue making their way down the tree. The bark roughly scraping against their palms and chests as they move.

“Well, how else would we make rules?” Tyler says slowly, “this is a democracy.”

“Most friend groups don’t have rules, but okay,” Blue says slowly.   
Mark pauses for a moment just to let them catch up.

“Who said we were friends?” Tyler says flatly as he ducks up next to Mark.

Mark elbows him in the ribs. Tyler leans away, and bumps his head on a branch.

“Nah, but seriously,” Mark says. “No more riffing. Ground first.”

“Aye aye, captain Markimoo,” Sean says from slightly below. Lifting only one hand in a faux salute, but still sticking close.

Blue blinks.

“Captain _what?_ ”


End file.
